


Musical Catharsis

by pingnova



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, American Sign Language, Bands, Cults, Demon Deals, Demonic Possession, Demons, F/F, Fans, Germany, Kink Meme, Magic, Muteness, Parent Death, Possession, Prompt Fill, Sign Language, Touring, Valhalla Soundbox, W2H_Meme_2017, Weird Plot Shit, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pingnova/pseuds/pingnova
Summary: "You’d be okay with not knowing? With hanging around an ex-con and being in the dark about what he’s done?""You’re working a shitty job at a shitty bar, socializing with a shitty singer. Whatever you’ve done, you’ve served time and now you’re here, slogging through life with a smile on your face. You’re trying. That’s got to count for something.""Thanks," Sock said quietly. "Thank you for giving me a chance."Sock's in Valhalla Soundbox. He's got a dark past, but a bright present. Jonathan disappears and so does Sock's chance for a bright future.





	Musical Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [W2H_Meme_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/W2H_Meme_2017) collection. 



> Fill for [prompt 326 on the old wthkinkmeme](http://wthkinkmeme.tumblr.com/post/91304926817/au-where-jon-sock-lil-and-jojo-are-in-a-band). I don't actually know how the law works in Germany, forgive me.

The first time it happened was in Prague.

Valhalla Soundbox was about to perform another sold out show. The stadium was a yawning cavity until people showed up. Their setup crew and the venue’s management were completely dwarfed by the size. Sock rarely got nervous before a show, but something about the place was giving him the heebie jeebies. Maybe it was the small crowd of technicians gathered in a far corner, pointing at something on the ground. He went over to investigate.

What was on the ground was paint. Dried black spray paint, to be exact. In a large circle filled with demonic looking symbols and shapes.

“What is this?” He definitely didn’t think the management had mentioned potential demon portals came with the venue. Not that it wouldn’t blend right in with the band’s theme, besides being sick as hell.

One of the technicians was on his hands and knees trying to scrub it off the floor, to little effect. It looked like it had been baked into the cement. He shook his head.

“Just some graffitti. Showed up this morning. Having a hell of a time getting rid of it. We’re trying different solutions to see what will get it off.”

Sock nodded awkwardly and thanked him for his work.

The show went fine that night, with the crowd whooping and moshing like any other show. The next two went almost exactly the same. Eerily the same. Similar grafitti made an appearance at each one.

By the fourth appearance, another circle with foreign symbols inside of it painted between the seats of ANZ Stadium in Sydney, the band decided to take some action.

“Hey everyone,” Jonathan began during a lull in the music. The stadium hushed almost immediately. He was sweating from the heat of the lights and licked his lips before continuing. Thousands of eyes caught the quick swipe of his tongue and someone in the audience screamed in delight. “Make sure you’re respecting the venue. Someone’s been leaving graffiti at our shows and while we’re flattered by the dedication, we’re really not into the extra work it’s giving the staff. Everybody got it?”

The stadium roared in response. Jonathan nodded and Sock strummed out the first note of their next song.

Sock was in his element onstage. A performer at heart, onstage he was a pulsing, sweating mass of passion, grabbing the mic to his mouth like he was going to swallow it, or make out with it. Tossing his extremities around in dance or manic frenzy. Some publications called him berserker, like the gale-force Norsemen of old.

Meanwhile, Jonathan just kind of stood there. He paced around the stage, smiling every once in awhile at a fan who would promptly faint. Offstage, he couldn’t even be bothered to grimace for photos. He was cool as a cucumber. Of course, this just made him a cool guy. There were all sorts who made him out to be someone who carefully controlled his internal squall until he released himself in song on stage. Singing was the one situation where he would emote. There were hordes of girls across the world vying to romance him over it.

Jonathan just held himself close to his chest. That’s what he told Sock, anyway. If you asked him, Jonathan needed an outlet for those emotions he claimed he never had. And if he found it most cathartic in front of screaming mobs of thousands, Sock couldn’t blame him. He felt that way too. Lil, Jojo—the whole band did. That’s why they were in the business in the first place.

Musical catharsis.

In Sock’s case, that ended with a lot of smashed guitars and sometimes smashed limbs. He blew across the stage, accosting Jonathan and Lil and Jojo in equal measure (maybe Jonathan a tad more often), working the instruments and crowd into a thrumming fever-pitch that brought out the raging rocker that lurked in all people. Parents criticized his talent for riling up crowds into healthy mosh pits that occasionally broke a few arms or blackened a few eyes (like anyone could directly blame him for that).

When it manifested in writhing all around, gleefully destroying props and looking like he’d destroy bodies too, he knew the band was sometimes concerned about it as well. On their last North American tour, he went through eight guitars. Eight! He would have gone through more too if it weren’t for those meddling kids.

Their concern was heartening, if unwelcome. People cared about him. He almost couldn’t believe it.

 

* * *

 

“This is Zack.” Jonathan gestured to the young man standing to attention outside Jonathan’s tour bus. Zack was taller than Jonathan, built like a linebacker, but his shoulders were hunched like he was nervous.

“He’s a huge fan,” Jonathan continued. “He saw us in Sydney, too. Been saving to catch us on tour in a couple places. Zack, this is Sock, but I’m sure you know that.”

Zack nodded and stuck out a hopeful hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Sock took the hand and stretched his lips in a grimace. “Nice to meet you too.”

He never liked fans hanging out around their buses. It was like someone loitering around his home. He wasn’t sure what Jonathan was doing talking to a fan out here. Although, when the hopeful look on Zack’s face morphed into awe upon the handshake, Sock thought that maybe he understood. Jonathan never could resist the big fans. They were easy to please - they dreamed of meeting the members of Valhalla Soundbox someday, and Jonathan could fulfill such a simple innocent dream.

Zack clutched a photo in his free hand. Sock caught a glimpse of Jonathan with his head thrown back in a rare moment of unawareness on stage, when he was completely wrapped up in the moment. It was high contrast, obviously professional, and probably cost a lot of money. Jonathan had signed across the brightest part of the photo, his face, in looping black script. So, he was a Jonathan fan.

“You’re lucky to meet Jonathan, Zack. He’s probably the best singer out there, you’ll never hear anyone better.” Sock lightly pushed Jonathan’s shoulder. “He’s the greatest man I know.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. He was annoyed, but there was something more to it. Some gratitude.  “Sock…”

“Oh, totally,” Zack agreed. Leaning forward, he continued enthusiastically. “His vocals are so raw, in a pure way. I really admire you, Jonathan.”

“Thanks.” Jonathan scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I need to get going now so if you don’t mind…”

“Yes. Right.” Zack righted himself and pointed towards the main thoroughfare. “I’ll leave. It’s been an honor to meet you two.”

Sock and Jonathan waved as he left.

“He’s nice,” Jonathan said.

“You know I hate it when they hang around the buses.” Sock rubbed his face. “But yes, he wasn’t bad.” Jonathan had been acting weird around fans lately. Not his usual self.

They had a rule that fans didn’t touch Jonathan, because he just wasn’t comfortable with that. So when one placed a bold kiss on his cheek after their sold out Sydney show, nobody could blame Sock for getting a little tense. Uncharacteristically, Jonathan just blinked and laughed, giving the fan a big hug and sending them on their way. It was weird of the normally reserved rocker, and Sock let him know that after the meet and greet.

“I just wanted to,” Jonathan explained. “Maybe she needed it.”

Sock guessed he couldn’t argue with Jonathan’s intuition. Their music had been a source of inspiration and hope for people across the world. Jonathan knew a bit of validation went a long way.

That didn’t make the memory any less strange.

“I won’t do it again, Sock. Don’t worry. He was chasing his picture over here, the wind got it, and I helped him out.” In response to Sock’s raised eyebrow: “I know it sounds fake, but it really happened. And it looked like an expensive picture.”

Sock had to allow that.

 

* * *

 

Sock was chained to the interview room table when his lawyer bustled through the heavy metal door. He wasn’t restrained too badly, his ankles and left hand were free, but he was a risk and no one wanted to give him free reign of the room.

His lawyer took the seat across from Sock and held out a hand. “Benny. Despite the circumstances, it’s nice to meet you, Napoleon.”

Sock shook the hand. “Nice to meet you too. You can call me Sock. Everyone else does.”

Benny cocked his head in question and then shrugged, like he’d heard worse in his time as a public defender.

“I’m going to get right down to it,” Benny began, flicking a briefcase open on the tall table. “You’re fifteen, but you do know that your case automatically qualifies for adult court, right?”

Sock nodded. A double homicide would do that.

“But you turned yourself in. That’s good, N– Sock. That significantly helps your case. What doesn’t help is, um, the sleepwalking?” Benny placed a transcript of Sock’s 911 call on the table. A couple lines were highlighted.

_I was asleep, I just woke up and they’re dead. I don’t remember what happened._

He remembered hyperventilating into the phone, awake like he’d never been before, because his fingers were tacky with the blood of his parents, who were sprawled unmoving in their bed. The freak out was more because he was actually doing it, actually calling the police on himself, and less because he’d apparently just killed his parents. Killing things wasn’t new. Killing people, though…

The phone was almost glued to his hand with blood. An officer had to pry it from him when they arrived.

Benny was calling his name. He looked minutely concerned. “I think we should order a psych eval.”

“I was in therapy for awhile,” Sock admits. “For homicidal urges. I passed their evals, I dunno if a new one would show anything.”

“They tested you for substances, correct?”

Sock made a face. “Yes, they won’t find anything. I was really asleep.”

“For what it’s worth, Sock, I believe you. I don’t know if a court will.”

There was a knock on the window. Benny turned to the one-way glass and waved at the blank pane, shuffling papers back into his briefcase.

“The police are going to send someone in to talk to you, so I want you to remember a few things about your rights…”

 

* * *

 

They were almost there. Last verse of the last song of the night. Jojo crashed away on the drums, Lil was bent over the bass in concentration, and Sock was jumping in time with the tempo, fingers aching on the strings of his guitar. Arm raised for the final stroke, Sock bared his teeth at Jonathan, waiting for the vocals that signified the end. Jonathan smiled back, leaned into the mic, and opened his mouth to begin.

He was framed in white light, too bright to be from the tech, concentrated around his feet. It cut off the sound of his voice before he got a single syllable in, but Sock, Lil, and Jojo still followed the beat, playing without him. Sock’s hand faltered on a note as the white consumed Jonathan on stage. It illuminated the stadium, throwing the faces in the first few rows into stark contrast, forcing eyes closed and mouths open. Sock squinted into the light, looking for Jonathan’s figure, but the light cleared in an instant, and Jonathan was nowhere to be seen.

The stadium roared and whooped, started chanting for an encore as Sock met Lil and Jojo by Jonathan’s mic. They looked at the ground where he had been standing and then at each other, searching faces for any trace of knowledge about what had just happened. But everyone was equally confused. The light and Jonathan disappearing were not part of their routine. Tech wasn’t even equipped with light that bright or the ability to pop someone offstage.

Jonathan was gone and they had no idea why.

 

* * *

 

“What happened out there?”

Jojo faced Lil and threw her drumsticks on the shelf by her bunk. “No idea.”

“Jonathan just… He vanished, right?” Lil folded into the booth between the kitchen and bunks, hugging herself. “I didn’t just hallucinate that?”

“No, I saw it too.” Jojo joined her in the booth, placing a light hand on her lower back. “I’m sure security will find out what happened.”

Lil leaned into her, eyes closing with a satisfied sigh. It was a small gesture, but huge for them. Sock knew they were dating in secret, that they hadn’t even told the rest of the band yet. The paparazzi were relentless, and they’d want to stay out of the limelight for as long as they could.

Sock shucked off his costume, opting for a pair of worn jeans and a soft T-shirt. Civilian clothes, for mixing with the general public.

“Where you going?” Jojo watched him lace up his boots.

“I’m going to check out the stage, it might have a clue about what happened to Jonathan.”

Jojo’s eyebrows crinkled. “I think we should leave investigating to security, Sock. They know what they’re doing. If they can’t find Jonathan, they’ll call the police.”

“I’m not waiting for security or the police.” Sock yanked the knots on his boots and threw open the door. “You can come.”

She didn’t get up, and he left by himself.

Sock and Jojo were a bit of a sore spot with the band. They had known each other since childhood, and their relationship hadn’t always been pleasant. Maybe Sock had been a bit of a tormentor as a kid, maybe not. Sock was certain that his insistence on showing Jojo dead things as a child was his way of trying to connect, while she believed it was his malicious attempt to disturb her deeply. Whatever the intention, it landed him in psychotherapy. He was proud to say he maintained his interest in taxidermy as an adult, at least. Years of medication and talk doctors couldn’t take that from him.

Jojo knew what Sock had done, why he’d gone to prison. And given the fact that it was she he had tormented with his childhood kills, she was well acquainted with all of his homicidal behavior. Despite this, she still returned his calls and hung out with him. Sock thought that maybe she still saw that lonely little boy who tore up her favorite Squirrely.

It was actually Jojo who suggested to Sock that they form a band. They were already half a band: a guitarist and drummer. Jojo knew Lil, a bassist, and Sock knew a closeted singer: Jonathan. There was no reason to be in a band other than they could, and Sock mostly wanted in to see Jonathan sing. He wasn’t shy about his skills, but he definitely wasn’t going around sharing them with everyone. It took a considerable amount of liquor and blackmail to get him to the mic for their first practice.

Jonathan learned to sing by participating in church choir since he was a child. In high school he was singled out for one-on-one lessons and once he graduated he would make the rounds on karaoke nights. The first time Sock met Jonathan, he was singing quite beautifully, despite how drunk he was. It was funny watching him attempt to follow the words scrolling across the screen, until it wasn’t.

In that bar, long ago, the song ended and Jonathan squinted out at the audience. Everyone was clapping and hollering. He split a watery grin. His bow turned into a seated fetal position, and in the uncomfortable silence that followed, his shaking shoulders and hidden face made it obvious he was having some kind of breakdown. Patrons turned back to their drinks and murmured conversations.

The quiet went on too long and Sock stood up with a sigh. Somebody had to help the poor sap.

He put a hand on karaoke-guy’s shoulder and shook it a bit. “Hey, buddy, it’s going to embarrass you later that you sat down in the spotlight and sobbed your face off.”

He looked down at his hands and up at Sock, mouth opened like he’d just realized what was happening.

This guy was really out of it. Sock waved at the bartender’s curious look to indicate that he had control of the situation and he took a seat next to karaoke-guy, completely comfortable in the bright light of the stage.

“I’m Sock,” he said, offering a hand.

“Jonathan,” the other man mumbled.

“You look like a Jonathan,” Sock offered. “It’s in the eyes. They just scream, ‘Jonathan!’” He said it in a small squeaky voice, how he imagined eyes would sound if they had vocal chords.

Jonathan grinned. “You don’t look like a Sock. You look like a person. Like a high schooler, actually.” He narrowed his eyes. “Should you even be in a bar?”

Sock laughed, a quick ‘HAH’. “You’d be surprised how often I get people doubting my age. I’m not going to let the drunk guy card me, though. I swear on my mother’s grave I’m of age.”

Without warning, Jonathan keened and buried his head in his arms again. Sock held up his hands. Was it something he said?

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan began, rubbing his arm over his eyes. He was in a thick gray hoodie, arms and torso buried in layers of fleece, like he was hiding himself from prying eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, uh. It’s okay,” Sock offered. “Maybe you should go home. Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Please.”

After Sock made the call, he put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder again. “I probably shouldn’t ask, but what’s got you in such a knot? Is it a girl?”

Jonathan hugged his knees, contemplating the edge of the stage. In the bright lights, he was white like a ghost. Sock could only see one eye, which seemed to look beyond the floor, down deeper, into the cold compact earth.

“My mom died,” he admitted quietly. Sock almost didn’t hear it over the conversation that had resumed around the bar.

He pursed his lips. “I’m sorry.”

Jonathan shook his head. “Don’t be, it’s not your fault.”

“Well, I’m sorry it’s got you in such a bad way.”

Jonathan turned that piercing gaze on Sock, and he shivered. Whatever Jonathan was looking for, he found it in Sock’s face. “She died a couple months ago, actually. But this is the first time I’ve left my apartment since then. Look where that got me.” He grimaced. “Stupid!”

He got up as if to leave and swayed on his feet. Sock stood and offered his shoulder, which Jonathan accepted with another grimace, like he regretted everything that brought him to this moment. Sock was slightly insulted. He made a very good crutch, thank you very much. When someone needed help, they practically begged to lean on him.

“You know,” Sock said as they waited under the bar’s overhang for the taxi. “You’re really good at singing, even drunk. You should try out for something. I’m sure all us bums would miss you down here, but your voice should be on the radio.”

Jonathan laughed bitterly. It twisted Sock’s gut and made bile rise into the back of his throat. He’d poked the wasp’s nest.

“Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

Sock handed Jonathan his number on a receipt as he climbed into the cab. “Text me to let me know you got back okay.”

Jonathan gave him a suspicious eye. “Why?”

“I don’t have to be your life partner to worry about someone making it home alright,” Sock huffed. “You don’t have to but it would be nice to know you’re not lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Jonathan pulled the door shut without an answer, but Sock got a message as he keyed into his own apartment.

 _Not dead in a ditch_ , from an unknown number.

Sock texted a thumbs up emoji, then after some thought, a squinty-eyed smiley and a party cracker.

 _Geeze_ , he got back. Then, _Thank you_. _Night_.

 

* * *

 

_Hey. Im not sure how to ask this, but would you be up to seeing a movie with me?_

_Who is this?_

_Jonathan. Didn’t you save my number?_

_No_

_This is Sock, right?_

_Yes_

Ten minutes with no response.

_Is that a no?_

_If it’s Saturday, it’s a yes_

_I can do Saturday_

Sock stared at his smartphone, trying to think of a polite way to put his thoughts.

_Didn’t you just meet me? Why do you want to do a movie?_

He got an answer the next day, like Jonathan had spent the night thinking about his reply.

_You’re all I’ve got_

 

* * *

 

Jonathan, for all he had a breakdown the first time they met, was usually an exceptionally stable person. Even though they saw a romantic comedy, Sock wasn’t sure Jonathan even caught the comedy aspect of the film. Not a twitch of the lip or huff of laughter the entire time.

That, or he was repressing everything in the wake of his mother’s death. Sock chose to believe he had someone significantly well-adjusted in his life instead.

“Dude,” Sock said as he tossed his trash on the way out. “It must suck to play you in poker.”

“I don’t gamble,” Jonathan said, taking out his phone to check the time.

Sock rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t.” He wondered if Jonathan did anything at all, aside from taking strangers he met at the bar to rom-coms.

They ended up at another bar across the street. Sock settled into the unfamiliar barstool and poked Jonathan’s shoulder a few times.

“So, spill.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. He had no idea what Sock was talking about.

“The texts? Movie? ‘I’m all you’ve got’?” Sock gestured to encompass their outing.

Jonathan hunched and took a swig of his beer. “You were the first person I talked to in months. It was easier to ask you.”

“Easier to ask me instead of who?”

“My family, or my old friends. I only had a few, and I haven’t spoken to them since the funeral.” Jonathan stares over the bar, at his reflection in the mirror behind the shelves of bottles. “I don’t know if I can bring myself to talk to anyone I know.”

Sock nodded sagely. “You can unload on a stranger though.”

“It’s not like that. Not like, ‘unloading.’” Jonathan looks away from his own gaze, uncomfortable. “I need to do something different in my life. I understand if you don’t want to be here, though. I wouldn’t blame you if you left. We just met.”

Sock held his response on his tongue. He wanted to tell Jonathan that he actually didn’t have any close friends, just some acquaintances and coworkers. He could admit to Jonathan that he needed something new too, that the absence weighed on him like tar. That Jonathan was the first human being he had a real conversation with since that gas station attendant a few weeks ago.

But they just met.

Instead, he says, “My parents are dead too.”

Jonathan grunts. “Then you know how I’m doing, six weeks into it.”

Sock just nods. They go quiet.

“You’re very good at singing,” Sock tries again. “I know you laughed at me when I suggested going along with it, but you really shouldn’t dismiss it. Where did you learn to sing like that?”

Jonathan told him about church choir, high school lessons, showers and weddings and duets with his mom. She had been the wind under his wings. She didn’t have any background in music but tried to encourage his interests as best she knew how, with the little money she had.

“Singing was free,” Jonathan said. “I don’t need to buy anything to sing, not like with guitar or hockey. I could afford my own voice.” He goes quiet, contemplative. “When I was very young, after my father died, I wouldn’t speak to people. They called it ‘selective mutism,’ an anxiety disorder that happened to me after trauma.” He put down his drink and held up his hands, making a few precise gestures to Sock’s face. “I said, ‘nice to meet you.’”

“You can sign ASL?” Sock had never met anyone who could sign.

“A little bit.” Jonathan took a heartening gulp of beer. “Don’t need it much now that I can speak again. But it’s been useful before, so I still practice.”

“So that’s why singing is such a big deal? Because you weren’t able to talk for awhile?”

Jonathan nodded. “It’s like a gift. ‘You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.’”

Sock smiled. This was a man of many talents. Someone who had been through a lot of pain, but turned his suffering into art with his muscles and skin, with gestures and song.

“Sing for me,” Sock requested a few weeks later. They lounged on his couch, watching _Ghost Adventures_ on TV to make fun of the cast as they ran screaming from creaking doors. “C’mon, you can’t talk about how important it is and then not do it.”

Jonathan pursed his lips. “Maybe some other time.”

“Please?”

“Sock.”

Sock frowned. He hadn’t seen Jonathan at karaoke night again and Jonathan had admitted that the last time he went to a church was for his mother’s funeral. “You’re not singing, are you? Not since your mom died.”

Jonathan kept his eyes on the TV, intently watching a commercial for McDonald’s. Sock rolled his eyes.

Looking back, it seemed like another form of his childhood anxiety disorder. Someone he loved died, and part of his expression went with them: his voice. His mother took his song with her to the grave. Jonathan couldn’t fly without any wind.

It must hurt terribly, to have part of himself locked away. Sock thought about his psychotherapy, the instructions to control his homicidal urges and leave the neighborhood pests alone. To leave Jojo alone.

Sock sat on the edge of the stage and strummed his guitar gently, thoughtful. He had scoured the stage for any sign of Jonathan.

Nothing.

They were nearing the last show of their world tour. Jonathan performed in front of crowds of thousands without an ounce of doubt. He had come a long way from the man Sock had first met. Sock wondered if the same could be said for him.

He was ready to hype the finale’s crowd like no other, to see the night out with a bang. There would be more shows and more opportunities to rile up fans, but the finale was a special night. It was a night he wanted to drown in noise and passion.

It was the night he got out of prison.

 

* * *

 

It was awhile before Jonathan returned to the bar where they first met. Their relationship was different this time, not because the movie had affected some great change, but because Sock was working the bar that evening.

“You work here?” Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he took a seat and hashed out his order.

“Yeah.” Sock grinned and prepped his drink. “The boss is always cranky and they always leave the drunk people to me, but it’s work.”

“So why do you work here if you hate it so much?”

Sock frowned at the glass he wiped. “Do you want the truth or the lie I want to say?”

Jonathan looked taken-aback, like the answer should have been something simple and inoffensive, instead of the Earth-shattering revelation it would probably be. “The truth, I guess.”

Sock paused. “This place hires felons.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said. Then, “Are those places hard to find?”

Sock rolled his eyes. “God, yes. You don’t know the half of it. It’s like making a rock bleed.” But he smiled. Jonathan didn’t freak or seem surprised. Just sympathetic. He’d see how long that would hold. “I bet you want to know why I’m a felon.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Only if you want to tell.”

Sock placed the glass gently on the drying rack. Water dripped down his hands, slicing cold trails into his skin. So cold it was almost warm. The ghosts of bloody hands holding knives and receivers. He didn’t want to tell, really. “You’d be okay with not knowing? With hanging around an ex-con and being in the dark about what he’s done?”

“You’re working a shitty job at a shitty bar, socializing with a shitty singer. Whatever you’ve done, you’ve served time and now you’re here, slogging through life with a smile on your face. You’re trying. That’s got to count for something.”

One second, Sock and Jonathan were safely separated by the bar, a solid wall of wood and glass keeping their worlds apart. The next, Sock wrapped around Jonathan in a crushing hug, pressed against his chest the moment Jonathan sucked in a breath of shock.

“Thanks,” Sock said quietly. “Thank you for giving me a chance.” _I won’t let you down_.

 

* * *

 

Fans were something both precious and annoying. Sock found that as their listener base grew, he had less and less patience for the more enthusiastic members. He appreciated their dedication, of course. They contributed to hype, his paycheck, and maybe even a little to his ego. But he couldn’t get over the fact that they obsessed over the band from afar without even knowing who Sock, Jonathan, Lil, and Jojo really were.

Jonathan’s fanbase, for example, was massive, and Sock was pretty sure a good amount of his fans wrote themselves into stories starring a fictional Jonathan, someone they’d probably never meet and definitely never know. He’d seen some things on the Internet that would have offended his mother’s sensibilities.

The band got cards and figurines and all sorts of gifts from fans. They had a closet in headquarters for all of it, because as much as each instance meant to them, they couldn’t haul it around their busy lives.

Their music meant a lot to people all over the world. He knew the creative power of music, how it contributed to healing and motivation. Music could understand him when no one else could. It allowed him to process his parents’ deaths, his stint in prison, his hardships as a free man. His experiences melded with those of Jonathan, Lil, and Jojo. They made something beautiful out of agony. It’s what anyone would want in the aftermath of something terrible.

He had to wonder if their situation would one day become music, like all the other painful things in their lives.

It was two days since Jonathan had gone missing.

They had to wait one more day before making a case with the police, a technicality Sock wanted to piss all over. An international superstar doesn’t just disappear in front of a crowd of thousands. There was no arguing that was suspicious.

He wished this had at least happened back in the United States. Germany’s system was unfamiliar. He knew they would inform the US embassy when they informed the police too, but it didn’t make him feel much better.

He remembered the last time he was this agitated.

Jonathan was scared. And because Jonathan was scared, Sock was nervous. It was difficult to get to Jonathan, but this situation was really knocking him off his rocker.

Jonathan stood offstage, just behind the curtains, peering out at the audience every once in awhile. It was their second show at this particular venue, a fairly popular bar by the name of Pourhouse. It had a real stage, with a projection and light setup. Even curtains, which were open, revealing their instruments, set up and waiting to be played. Lil and Jojo were backstage somewhere. Sock was trying to keep their lead singer on this plane of existence.

“I don’t feel right,” Jonathan said, refusing to face Sock. The only sign of his anxiety was how he gripped the edge of the curtain like a security blanket.

“It’s gonna be weird at first, but you’ll get used to you,” Sock tried to reassure him.

“What if I can’t do it? What if the alcohol gave me all my stage presence? What if I slip up?” Jonathan cupped his hands and leaned into them, like he was praying. “This is my first sober show. What if I fuck it up?”

Sock hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder, wishing he could physically transfer a sense of calm. “I know you’ll pull through.”

Jonathan finally glanced at Sock, just briefly, then he heaved a resigned sigh.

No matter how Jonathan felt about singing sober onstage, it had to be done. His drinking habits were bordering on out-of-control. If asked, Jojo would assure anyone that Jonathan was already a full-blown alcoholic. Sock thought that was a bit much, he wasn’t smuggling alcohol into the apartment or anything, but it was still worrying.

It was never just about the drinking. Alcohol was an early coping mechanism after his mother died a year ago. Jonathan had to let go of her one way or another if he wanted to really live, not just exist as a pale memory on two legs.

So tonight, no matter how it went, was progress. Jonathan was sober onstage for the first time since the band began performing.

In their free time, Jonathan would teach Sock some ASL. Jonathan’s own skills were limited to what a child would have known, but he still managed to get the basic sentence structure and vocabulary across.

They used it to communicate privately when they were in public or when neither could hear. Jonathan would covertly make the gesture for _get me out of here_ and Sock would wrap up whatever they were doing. Sock would would indicate that they should skip the next song in a set and Jonathan would sign back, _got it_. Or they would argue over it.

It was thrilling, like their own secret language.

Their relationship was something like friendship. It wasn’t like they always got along. In fact, as time progressed, Sock felt that they got along less. They fought and stormed out and got tired of each other. But they stuck together, inexplicably. Always, they mended things and sat back like friends.

It struck Sock that as only children, neither of them knew what it was like to have a sibling. Maybe this was it.

Sock didn’t want to call them anything like friends or siblings, though. He didn’t deserve a title like that. Not until Jonathan knew everything. About the death of his parents, his time in prison. He doubted any relationship would survive that. To save himself the heartache, he was going to consider them good acquaintances. When Jonathan broke it off it would hurt less that way.

The lie sat bitterly in his chest.

 

* * *

 

It was the driving force of an electric guitar that carried Valhalla Soundbox’s tone. Every instrument―the voice, bass, drums, guitar―was vital. Each were threads woven into a full picture. But what really pulled the tapestry together was, without a doubt, Sock and his electric guitar. It helped that he basically wrote the music. Sure he collaborated with everyone else, especially Jonathan, but it was he that demoed new songs and brainstormed nonstop.

Sock’s fingers hesitated a moment too long and he tossed his guitar away in disgust. Trying to lose himself to music, practicing unreleased material, wasn’t bringing him the same serenity. Not with Jonathan missing. He couldn’t focus.

There was a knock on Sock’s door. On the other side was none other than Zack, the fan Jonathan had introduced Sock to a few days ago.

“Zack?”

His mouth dropped open. “You remember my name.”

Sock didn’t feel like dealing with a starry-eyed superfan right now. “Yeah. Listen, I can sign one thing, but then you have to leave. We’ve got a situation right now and I need to help deal with it.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Zack sobered up. “Jonathan’s missing.”

“How did you know? We haven’t even told the police.”

“I heard security talking.”

“No offense, I appreciate the worry, but we’re handling it.” Sock began to close the door. “Have a nice day.”

“Wait, wait.” Zack caught the door. “I might know where Jonathan is.”

Sock paused. He narrowed his eyes. “How?”

Zack licked his lips nervously. “The person who runs the biggest Valhalla Sounbox fanclub, Ilse? We’re kinda good friends. I found her some rare merch once and she returned the favor. She, uh, she’s been talking about this big project she’s working on. She said Jonathan was involved and today she told me it’s almost done and Jonathan’s there, helping her.”

“And I should believe the crazy fangirl, why?”

Zack pulled a phone out of his pocket and swiped across the screen. He handed the phone to Sock. It was a selfie. Jonathan smiled back, hugging another person with long brown hair and joy in their eyes. Sock had known Jonathan for years and had never seen him look so carefree. It was disconcerting.

“I came here as soon as I got off the phone, you can check the timestamp on the picture. I’m telling the truth. I might know where he is.”

Sock handed the phone back and steeled himself. It was time to trust a fan. “Show me.”

 

* * *

 

It was so stereotypical, it almost made him laugh. The run down warehouse, with weeds all around the perimeter and busted doors hanging off their hinges. It wouldn’t have been out of place in a crime television show.

Jonathan was in there.

Sock hoped that every single person who had a hand in his disappearance would be present, so he could brain them himself. There were no words for how wrong the situation was.

Lil waved from behind one of the busted doors. The coast was clear.

Inside, there was nothing. Just dust, a few abandoned crates. The space stretched for what seemed like miles of echoing darkness. Sock heard his footsteps reflected across the room, like someone was mirroring his movements, following them. He hunched, avoiding the few spots of dim light from boarded up windows high above their heads.

“This place is really creepy,” Jojo whispered. She noticed Lil’s wide eyes and grabbed her hand.

“What else did you expect from the weirdoes who kidnapped an international superstar,” Sock mumbled. “Only someone who frequents a place like this would even cook up that idea.”

Everyone looked at Zack, who shuffled behind them uncomfortably.

“I don’t see anything,” Lil said. “Literally. It’s so dark in here. Zack, do you know where they would be? Are there secret rooms or something?”

“No,” Zack said. “I don’t know anything else, just that she would always stop here.”

“Okay,” Lil dropped Jojo’s hand to face the group. “We should split up, see if we can find any doors or signs of life.”

Jojo grabbed Lil’s hand back. “Have you seen a single horror movie in your life? You are definitely not supposed to split up in the creepy warehouse. I’m not leaving you.”

Lil blinked, gazing at Jojo in silence. Jojo gazed back and readjusted her grip on Lil’s hand, bringing it up to her cheek.

“Okay!” Sock said, not wanting to see another minute of intimacy. Those two were supposed to be keeping their relationship a secret and were really not doing a good job at it. “You two go to the right, Zack and I will go to the left. See you!” And he quickly left the scene. He didn’t even care whether or not Zack followed him.

Sock and Zack reached the far wall. It was even darker here, so when Zack bumped into Sock’s back with an exclamation of “oomph!”, Sock blamed the reflexive punch on his lack of vision. If Zack suspected otherwise, he wisely stayed silent.

Sock kicked a board on the floor, grateful for the hollow clattering noises it made against the ground. They walked over a grate set into the cement and he dragged his feet to make it hum. The warehouse was too quiet, even with the echoes of Lil and Jojo on the other side.

“So you’re really sure she never mentioned anything else about this place?” Sock pushed. “Zip?”

“Yeah, she was pretty tight lipped about the whole thing.” Zack put a hand on the wall, feeling for any disruption in the brick. “She would just say, ‘I’m going down to the Benno.’”

“Wait, ‘going down’?” Sock backed up and felt around the grate with his foot. His toes bumped into a handle, and a hinge. It was big enough to fit two people down at once, and not at all in the same disrepair as the rest of the warehouse. No dust or debris or rust on it whatsoever. He grinned.

 

* * *

 

Jojo insisted on going down first, since she was smaller and more nimble. Of course, Lil wouldn’t let her be any sort of alone, so she was next. Then Sock, then Zack. They were way too prepared to crawl down a dark hole in the ground, Sock thought. He remembered when the bravest thing he had to do was rip off a Band-Aid.

It was completely black and quiet underground. This time, Sock bumped into Zack, so he let him off the hook for that one. The tunnel stretched in one direction, and somewhere in the distance, there was a pinprick of light.

Sock pushed his way past Lil and Jojo, who stood pressed shoulder to shoulder in his way. “If no one’s going to move, I’ll go get him myself.”

“Sock,” Lil hissed, trailing after him. “We don’t know what’s up there. We have to be careful.”

“Careful’s my middle name.”

“I thought it was Maxwell,” Jojo said.

Lil didn’t say anything, and he knew they were both thinking of his mosh pit expertise. Whatever. He was careful enough to take care of some crazy fans.

He felt along the wall as he walked, just in case there was another passageway or grate. Or, hey, they were in a creepy underground lair, maybe there was a sconce on the wall that would light up so he could finally see. The darkness pressed against his eyes like it was trying to crush him. It made it difficult to breathe quietly.

Jonathan.

Sock set his jaw. Jonathan would be fine. They’d find him in one piece, a little freaked out, and make a clean escape. They’d hire more security. Jonathan would forever be grateful to Sock and always listen when he said his fans were creepy.

He couldn’t begin to consider what might happen if Jonathan wasn’t okay, or if Sock really couldn’t handle some crazy fans. Anyone who was capable of kidnapping such a public figure must be some kind of formidable. Even if they weren’t physically good opponents, they had something on their side that Sock didn’t. Whatever it was that made Jonathan disappear in an instant, like a bad Vegas magic trick.

He scoffed as _magic_ crossed his mind. Yeah, right.

Someone said something. He stopped, managing to stay upright as each person following ran into each other.

“What did you say?” he asked back across the line.

“Nobody said anything, Sock,” Jojo responded.

Sock heard it again. He turned towards the light, which was less of a pinprick and more like a disc now. Another voice joined in. It was conversation from the light.

Jonathan.

Sock started off again, quicker than before. The tunnel began to lighten.

Lil grabbed his shoulder. “We need some sort of plan. We can’t just walk in there and ask politely.”

“The plan...” Sock brushed off her hand, continuing to walk. “The plan is that we take them by surprise, Jojo, Zack, and I punch some people, you find Jonathan, and then we run.”

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“Do you have anything better?”

“We could call our lawyers to threaten them.”

Sock raised an eyebrow, even though no one could see it. “Do you really think somebody that’s willing to kidnap someone into an underground lair is going to be scared by lawyers?”

“I say we punch them,” Jojo chimed in.

Lil grumbled something but didn’t reject the plan.

They walked for what seemed like forever in the dark and quiet, but was probably just a dozen minutes. Sock was amazed at how long the tunnel was. He had no idea what they were under anymore, because the warehouse was definitely not this big.

As the voices got closer, Sock pulled himself tighter. He was pissed, and no amount of fear about going into the situation blind was alleviating that. The first face he saw, he was going to let loose.

Sock neared the light, which was now a hole larger than he was tall. Beyond it, there were shelves on unfinished cinderblock walls, holding bottles and tea tins. Someone passed across the hole, throwing him into momentary shadow. Sock stiffened, ready for an attack, but none came.

He could hear what they were saying now.

“You feel fine?” said an unknown voice. “We have potions, and tea. Tea always helps.”

“I’ll pass.” And that was Jonathan’s voice. “I feel great. It’s been awhile. Thanks for the vessel.”

Sock pressed against the wall, pulling up to the edge of the hole. The others did the same. He scrunched up his face. Vessel? Potions? What sort of conversation between captor and captive was this?

“It’s no problem, Mastema. It’s our honor, our honor.” If a voice could genuflect, this one would. They sounded like they were speaking to a revered king.

He quickly threw his head around the corner to see the other half of the room. It was indeed an unfinished basement, with ascending stairs on the far end and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Two people sat on the ground in the middle―Jonathan, who faced the hole cross legged in the middle of a circle painted on the floor, and another person in a black robe, face hidden by a hood. They faced away from the hole, but noticed when Jonathan met Sock’s eyes and Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

Sock drew himself back into the hole, hoping the robed figure had missed him. No one came to investigate, so he figured they were safe.

Lil elbowed his arm and inclined her head towards the hole. Should they go in now?

Sock nodded. There was only one person, aside from Jonathan. If they could incapacitate the robed person, the person couldn’t go get help, in the case that there were more of them just out of sight.

He jumped out of the hole and rushed the robed person, catching them in the back with his shoulder. The person toppled to the ground with a surprised shout. Thinking quickly, Sock clapped a hand over their mouth. The person scratched at Sock’s face. Jojo finally arrived and grabbed their arms.

“Lil, do you have Jonathan?” Sock ground out, attempting to hold the person’s mouth closed when they kept squirming.

Zack sauntered over, pulled back his arm, and released a punch to the back of their head. They stopped fighting and fell limply against Sock. Sock got up and let them keep falling, smacking onto the floor. He shrewdly evaluated Zack.

“That was a really hard punch. You knocked them right out.”

“Right,” Zack said, looking a lot less meek than he had previously. “I work out.”

“Hm.”

“Jonathan,” Lil was saying. “Come on.”

Jonathan was still cross legged on the floor, watching the commotion with an amused tilt to his mouth.

“Who are you fine ladies and gentlemen?” Jonathan asked, squinting up at Lil.

Sock’s heart dropped. “It’s us. Sock, Lil, Jojo, and… Zack.”

Jonathan raised a finger in recognition. Then he dropped it. “Yeah, I have no idea who you are.”

“You don’t know your bandmates?” Jojo said incredulously. “It’s not like I had to share a tour bus with your stinky ass for the past few months or anything. Glad I’m so forgettable.”

The robed figure on the floor groaned.

“Guys,” Sock grabbed Jonathan off the floor, bringing him to his feet. His face never lost the amused expression, and Sock fought down his discomfort and fear. “We need to go. We can deal with this later.”

Sock began to walk for the hole, but Jonathan wouldn’t budge.

“Jonathan,” Sock practically pleaded. “We really have to go before more of those weirdoes show up.”

Jonathan cocked his head, considering Sock, then pointed towards the stairs. “It’s much shorter if you exit through the front door. I’d much prefer that to a long dark tunnel. I’ve already been through one too many of those today.”

Lil went up first, then Sock with Jonathan in tow. Jojo and Zack made up the rear guard. They emerged into a dank, dark room. Lil felt around for a door handle and brushed over stone and wood.

“I found a handle,” Jojo said. “But I don’t think it’s for a door.”

With a shudder and a creak, Zack pushed open the door. Light flooded the room. Jojo and Lil jumped back from the walls. Coffins were shelved neatly amongst cobwebs and piles of dust. The one nearest Jojo had handles on the sides. The steps descended from a stone tomb in the middle of the room labeled Bernhard. They were in a mausoleum.

“Okay, wow, I am leaving right now.” Lil dashed outside. Everyone was quick to follow.

Weaving through headstones, they came to a thin line of trees, beyond which was a paved road. Jojo broke cover and rushed for the road. She jumped, waving at a pair of approaching headlights, shouting. But the car zoomed by. Lil plucked herself from a bush and joined Jojo in her efforts. Still cautious, Sock shuffled closer to Jonathan, staying hidden in the foliage.

“We’ll flag someone down, don’t worry about it. We’re world famous, someone’s got to help us out.”

Jonathan hummed. “Well at least my vessel has that going for him. What’s his name again?”

Sock eyed Jonathan with a mix of annoyance and concern. “Are you still going on about that? I don’t know what they hit you with―you’re going to a hospital once we’re back in civilization, because you keep talking like you’re not Jonathan.”

“I’m not,” Jonathan insisted. “I am someone else completely. In Jonathan’s body.”

“So you’re sure you’re not Jonathan?”

“Positive.”

“Alright then.” Sock narrowed his eyes. “Prove it.”

“Well, where do I even start. You went to prison for killing your parents. You got a light sentence, because it was an accident and you displayed an appropriate amount of guilt about it. You served your sentence and went to therapy like the good kid you are and then you left a reformed man.

“But that’s not how it really is, is it, Sock? You don’t feel bad about what you did. You regret that it happened and you miss your parents, but that’s it. There’s no guilt around the killing. You do worry though. What if it happens again? To Lil or Jojo? Or even Jonathan? If it happened to any of them it would probably be Jonathan. One way or another, you always drive away those closest to you, just by being truthful about who you are.”

Sock pulled away and the bushes rustled. Jonathan had no idea what he’d done. “Who are you?”

Jonathan, or rather, whoever was in Jonathan, huffed. “Well I can tell you I’m definitely not Mastema. Those kooks in there dialed the wrong number.” He stuck out Jonathan’s hand. “I’m Mephistopheles. Welcome to the nightmare.”

Jojo managed to flag down a car willing to get them back to civilization. Back in one of the tour buses, they argued.

“No, guys,” Sock agreed. “I don’t think he’s Jonathan.”

“What?” Jojo said. “Now you’re in on it too? What would even make you think that?”

Sock averted his eyes. He couldn’t look at the pain in Jojo’s face, couldn’t look her in the eye when he lied. “I don’t know, he just doesn’t seem like Jonathan.”

“Okay, let’s pretend this isn’t Jonathan. How do we get rid of this guy?” Lil said. She clasped her hands together and watched Mephistopheles pick at the sleeve of Jonathan’s hoodie, the look on his face suggesting he felt like he had been barely clothed in dirty rags.

“You could just kill him,” Mephistopheles offered with Jonathan’s voice. He dropped the sleeve to focus on the others in the room. “That would send me back in a snap.”

“No!” They all cried in unison. What a terrible thought.

“Do they not do that anymore? Whatever happened to that? What year is it?”

“Uh,” Sock had to think for a second. “2017.”

“Geeze, time has been chugging along out here. The last time I was around was 1720. Humans were just figuring out yacht clubs. Pretentious, but what else do you expect.”

“Okay. This is crazy.” Lil’s voice wobbled as she grabbed her head. Hearing Jonathan say “humans” like he wasn’t one was too much.

Mephistopheles quirked Jonathan’s mouth in amusement. He spoke with a strange lilt in his voice, like he was trying for an accent and couldn’t figure out how to do it on someone else’s vocal chords. “Most people who end up in my presence want to be there. You guys really don’t want me here, huh?”

“We really don’t want you here. We want Jonathan back,” Sock insisted.

“Well, there is one person who might be able to help you. But,” Mephistopheles wagged a finger, “if you want me to tell you, you have to do something for me. I want one of your souls.”

“What?!” That was Jojo. She was halfway in the fridge, hand frozen inches from a beer.

“Hey, if I have to be up here I want to damn at least one person.”

She slammed the door with more force than strictly necessary. “No way!”

“Looks like I’m Jonathan forever, then.”

“Look, isn’t there something else we can bargain with?” Lil tried to reason. “Do you want money? Fame?”

Mephistopheles contemplated that for a bit. Then he relented.

“I could use some coffee.”

“That’s it? You were demanding souls but now you can be bought off with coffee?”

“Hey, coffee is a necessity. I only got ten years of it once the Netherlands started producing. My time with it was cut brutally short.”

 

* * *

 

The person who could help apparently lived in a castle. A castle that was a university conveniently within taxi distance. They entered through a stone arch and arrived at a thick wooden door, probably original to the building. The embossed nameplate read P. Vorsehung. Mephistopheles knocked twice and they waited.

A heavy woman with a shock of purple hair on her head came to the door.

“Hallo, wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?” she said, eyes bright and smile wide.

“Uh,” Jojo began. “Sorry, we don’t speak German. English?”

Before the woman could look too confused, Mephistopheles stepped in.

“Vorsehung, schön dich wiederzusehen.”

“Mephistopheles!” she exclaimed, then continued in rapid fire German while Jonathan’s face morphed into a grimace at her words.

“Hey,” Jojo snapped. “Maybe include us in your conversation.”

The woman turned to them and tipped her head. “Yes, of course, sorry about that. It’s just been so long since I saw Mephistopheles! I’m glad he’s doing well.”

“That yelling was supposed to be happy?” Lil mumbled to Sock. German did have the tendency to sound angry to those who didn’t speak it.

“Yeah, well, Mephistopheles doing well means our friend isn’t. He said you could fix that,” Sock said.

Her eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, that man he’s possessing is your friend? Come in, I can help with that.” She opened the door fully and everyone cleared out of the hallway.

Her office was large, lined with bookcases packed with old tomes in good condition, not dusty or torn or crooked in the least. She took a seat at a heavy wooden desk set before bay windows that overlooked the grassy school grounds. Gesturing to indicate they should claim the armchairs before the desk, she got right into it.

“If you know Mephistopheles, then you know I’m not just a university professor. I’m known as Vorsehung here, but you can call me Providence.” She carefully placed both hands on her desk and looked into each of their eyes in turn. “You have to understand, whatever I tell you here, including my status as a witch, needs to stay between us. I have methods to enforce secrecy, but I’d prefer we all reach the same understanding instead.”

“Of course,” Sock said. He didn’t care what anyone was, what they did, or what they told him as long as Jonathan was going to be put back to normal in the end. “Providence, that’s a name.”

She smiled. “Yes, back when I was born, it was customary to name a child after a random word in the Christian bible. Luther had just translated it into the people’s dialect, after all. They made good use of that.”

“Luther? Like Martin Luther?”

“The very one!”

“When the hell were you born?”

“Sometime around 1538.”

“But that would make you… Over five hundred years old.”

“And I don’t look a day over thirty!”

“Get to the point, Providence,” Mephistopheles moaned.

Her smile faded into something rueful. “Mephistopheles, always trying to get things moving along.

“Let me tell you a bit about myself first. Thirty years after 1538, witch hysteria arrived in my hometown. Before all of that, witches were actually pretty highly regarded. It just meant I could read, write, and brew things other than beer. But learned women became something to fear. I lost a lot of sisters to it.” Her eyes grew hard. “They tried to burn me at the stake, but unlike a lot of the suspected witches they got, I was actually a witch. They couldn’t get me. Nobody can.”

Sock got the message. Don’t cross her.

“A book went missing from my library a few years ago. Now that you’re here with me, your friend unwillingly possessed, I think I know where it went. One of my economics students, who doubled as a magic student in secret, stole it from me. It was about summoning a very powerful being…”

“Mastema,” Mephistopheles guessed. “They messed up and got me.”

Providence nodded. “I will help you. But if you come across my student, that book must come back to me.”

“Of course,” Sock agreed.

For several hours, Providence gave it her best shot.

Providence paced around Mephistopheles, chanting something in a foreign language that wasn’t German. She paused and looked up from the book. Mephistopheles shrugged, still firmly in Jonathan. She frowned and replaced the book on the shelf.

“I’ve tried everything. Whatever they did to put Mephistopheles in there, it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. I can’t undo it.”

Lil sat up in the armchair where she dozed. “There’s nothing?”

“Well, you said that magic circles showed up at your shows?”

Everyone nodded.

“My guess, without seeing them, is that they were charging with the energy from the concerts. They’re like batteries. If you take them out, Mephistopheles might leave and Jonathan might come back.”

“No one could remove them, though,” Sock said, remembering the poor technicians in Prague trying to scrub the paint from the cement.

“I can whip you up something for that,” Providence assured. “You can remove magic with magic. Show me where the circles appeared.” She pulled out a paper map of the world and spread it on her desk, offering Jojo a red marker.

Jojo thought for a minute, then began marking. Rome, Berlin, Prague, Sydney…

Providence assessed the map as the number of dots grew. “You’ll have to get rid of at least half of each circle. It might be enough to erase three-fourths of all the circles, or you might have to get them all.”

“Let’s try getting them all,” Sock decided. “To be safe.”

Lil and Jojo nodded in agreement.

“It’ll be faster if we split up,” Lil said, drawing and invisible line down the map. “Sock and Jonathan, er, Mephistopheles, I mean, can go east. Jojo and I can go west.”

“How are we going to pay for this? Our manager is already suspicious about what we’ve been up to.” Sock was surprised they hadn’t got a call about it yet.

“Well he can suck it up,” said Jojo. “Just charge it to your credit card, we can deal with the fallout later. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. We need Jonathan back.” Her voice darkened. “I’ll do anything to have him back.”

Sock had to agree.

“Alright,” he said. “Everybody pack up. We’ve got circles to destroy.”

 

* * *

 

Sock served ten years, five for each victim. According to Benny, it could have been much worse, something like fifty years to life. But he plead guilty to third-degree murder, involuntary manslaughter, since they managed to convince the court that the case was more complicated than his history of homicidal behavior. Thanks to Benny studying up on a similar case in Canada, playing up his willingness to cooperate and his apparent youth (he celebrated his birthday in county jail and was sixteen at the time of sentencing), Sock got the long end of the stick.

Ten years still seemed like an eternity. Prison wasn’t easy. Socially, it was hell for a sixteen year old with mental issues. For twenty-two hours of the day he was confined to solitary, as “protection” against the adult inmates. He wasn’t sure if the isolation served him better than whatever the adults might have done.

When he was released, he didn’t even bother with a GED. Doors slammed in his face, literally and figuratively. Extended family, jobs, housing, even bank accounts. Everything was taken from him.

It was hard for him to think of his freedom as a clean slate, like his prison therapist always claimed it would be, when the word “felon” was practically tattooed to his face.

There had been a lot of time to think in prison, and a lot of appointments with a court-ordered therapist. None of it helped him. He didn’t feel right about killing his parents. Nothing about the situation was right, of course. A son killing his mother and father was messed up. In his sleep, unconsciously? Double messed up. His therapist had suggested that maybe, subconsciously, he’d fostered a kernel of hatred for them that was suppressed for so long it exploded.

Sock didn’t agree. It wasn’t anything personal like that. His parents were perfect saints and he never had a beef with them. They were a close, loving family.

Sock felt wrong about this one thing: he was obsessed with death, and he loved it more than he loved his parents. More than he loved anyone or anything.

It was the conclusion he came to after the hours of isolation in his cell and brain picking with the therapist. It was all he could think of to explain killing his parents, and the immediate urge he’d resisted that night to kill himself next. All the dead animals before that.

He started off writing phrases. Quick things that popped into his head, little fragments of ideas and short paragraphs of imaginary song. The phrases became poetry when he joined the prison literary group. It was dark, but not out of place. Full of anger and confusion and heartbreak. Pointed inwards, towards his heart, and outwards, towards the system. He kept writing up until his release. Then he stopped, tried to turn a new leaf, but when rejected at every turn, he came back to the phrases. This time, exposed again to the rhythm of the real world, he hummed as he wrote.

“What’s that?” Jonathan pointed to a worn notebook sticking out of Sock’s bag where it sat on the bar. He was closing up at two in the morning. Jonathan, who had spontaneously quit his job and spent the last couple nights drinking his stress away, had volunteered to keep him company.

“I write,” Sock offered. “Poetry. You… you want to see?”

“Sure.” Jonathan held out a hand.

Sock passed him the notebook and opened to a newer page. It was one he had written a month ago and starred, because he liked it so much. If he could write music, he’d score it. As it stood, he could only do so much with just his guitar.

“This is good,” Jonathan remarked, brow furrowed as he read. “This reads like a song.”

Pleased he could communicate his desires so well, Sock grinned. “Yeah, I like to think of some of them as songs. But I can’t write music.”

“You don’t have to write music to make it. Did you have a tune for it? Show me.”

Sock coughed nervously, but couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He hummed the first verse. Jonathan asked him to repeat, then he hummed it back. Before Sock could get embarrassed, he softly sang the first verse to the tune Sock had hummed.

Breath caught in his throat. Sock couldn’t hear anything, not even Jonathan singing. Sock’s words, his tune, the equivalent of his soul was on Jonathan’s tongue. All his deepest regrets about his actions, all his pains and fears in prison. Everything he’d resolved not to tell Jonathan, or for that matter, the world. It was now vocal in this bar.

He crashed back into reality when Jonathan began singing the second verse in a different tune. He was making it up as he went along. Goosebumps crawled up Sock’s arms and neck. Jonathan’s voice was soft, alcohol rough, laden with gravitas, like each word was sacred. It was intimate. He felt exposed, like Jonathan’s lips brushed his ear, repeating all his secrets back at him.

Jonathan trailed off and finally looked up from the notebook. If he noticed Sock’s state of panic, he didn’t say anything. Instead he smiled.

“I’d love to make more of these into songs, if you’d let me.”

“Of course,” Sock breathed, ready to agree to anything that voice would ask for.

 

* * *

 

In some ways, it was easy to tell them apart—Jonathan and Mephistopheles. Even though they shared a body. Jonathan slouched and sported a perpetual neutral stare, where Mephistopheles stood ramrod straight, always with a smirk on Jonathan’s mouth. A disaffected teenager versus an enthusiastic salesperson. It was just a matter of paying attention.

Sometimes Sock didn’t pay attention, he slipped up and treated Mephistopheles like Jonathan. Which he supposed wasn’t entirely unwarranted. Jonathan was still in there, somewhere. He would get through to him.

Sock wrapped up the story about the time Jonathan had clocked him for giving him a prank winning lottery ticket for his birthday, smiling.

“Why are you telling me this?” Mephistopheles furrowed Jonathan’s brow.

The smile melted off Sock’s face. “I guess I thought Jonathan would remember how funny it was.”

“Jonathan’s not here, kiddo.”

Sock bristled. “I know. I forgot for a second.”

Mephistopheles raised a placating hand. “It happens. For what it’s worth, I think anyone punching you would be hilarious.”

“Ha ha,” Sock deadpanned.

Sock hung around Mephistopheles because he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t let the demon walk around in Jonathan’s body unsupervised. Maybe it was selfish, but he also stuck closer than he normally would. Mephistopheles said Jonathan wasn’t aware, he wouldn’t remember anything Sock did or said. He could be a little more possessive and pin it on the fact that his friend was possessed, for god’s sake. Jonathan would never know.

He was beginning to have his doubts that hanging out with a demon was good for his mental health.

“What do you want, Sock? Mom and dad back? No more homicidal urges? Jonathan? Or what about: the homicidal urges stay, but if you were to act on them, there’d be no retaliation from the legal system?”

“God, no.” Sock slapped the wet cloth bundled in his hand to the ground. He was washing the circle from the cement with some enchanted holy water Providence had mixed up. Personally he thought it sounded like some grade-A nonsense, even if it was the only thing that had begun to dissolve the paint, but he wanted Jonathan back, so he was willing to give some nonsense a shot. “Why do you think I’d want that at all?”

“That sounds like a good deal, even to me. Definitely something that would be simple enough to arrange.”

“Yeah, in exchange for my soul, though. No thanks.”

“Oh,” Mephistopheles said. “It doesn’t have to be your soul. Just something important, as important to you as your soul.”

Sock scoffed. “Yeah, like what? What’s the equivalent of a human soul?”

Mephistopheles tapped Jonathan’s chin in faux thought. “Well let’s see. For Jonathan, here, that would be his voice.”

“What is this, _The Little Mermaid_? Are you going to break into a musical number?”

“In my younger days, maybe I would have.”

Sock wasn’t sure if he was being serious and decided to put that aside. “Yeah, well, I don’t have anything that’s as important to me as Jonathan’s voice is to him.”

“Don’t be so sure! I know for a fact you do.”

“Well, share with the class, then. What is it?”

Mephistopheles smiled, a twist of the mouth that teased the physical bounds of Jonathan’s face. “You’ve got to figure it out yourself. Telling would be cheating.”

“According to who?”

“Me.”

He was just being difficult for the hell of it. Fine. Two could play at that game. Sock went back to scrubbing the circle.

“Well, you’ll never know, because I’m never going to sell it to you.”

Mephistopheles’s smile stayed as he propped Jonathan’s face on his hand. “That’s what they all say.”

 

* * *

 

A week went by in a cycle. Plane, hotel, hunting for a circle, scrubbing the floor clean. Plane, hotel, hunting, scrubbing. Plane, hotel, hunting, scrubbing…

Valhalla Soundbox had made dozens of stops on its world tour. Sock began to think there was no way he could get to even half the circles in time. It didn’t help that Mephistopheles wouldn’t shut up. If he weren’t in his best friend’s body, Sock would have clocked him long ago.

The final show crept closer, reminding him that the anniversary of his release was within reach. He always spent that day doing what he did best, playing with the band, reminding himself that despite it all, he made it. Successful, surrounded by friends, loving what he did. No longer in solitary, no longer fighting homicidal urges. He was really living.

He couldn’t spend the anniversary on his hands and knees, hanging out with a demon in Jonathan’s skin. He might go crazy.

Sock scrubbed until his hands were raw.

 

* * *

 

One day until the finale.

Mephistopheles sat on the ground, far enough to be comfortably out of range of any splashing holy water. He inched forward, sticking out a hopeful hand.

“You’ll be out here forever, hunting down invisible circles, scrubbing like a maid. Your final show is coming up. If you want Jonathan back, you know what you need to do.”

“I’m not selling my soul.”

“Fine then, don’t sell me your soul. Give me something better.”

Sock bit his lip. “I don’t have anything better.”

“No use lying to me, Sock.”

Sock took the hand.


End file.
